There was a time when the only surfaces that mattered were walls I wasn't supposed to touch. Underpasses, metro stations, railway yards at three in the morning — spaces that belonged to no one, or maybe to everyone, depending on how you looked at it. The city was the studio. Noise, urgency, adrenaline. You worked fast, you worked in the dark, and the scale of everything around you was part of the work itself.

I didn't plan what came after.

Somewhere along the way the urgency shifted inward. The line slowed down. The marks became more deliberate, more mine — less about occupying space and more about understanding it. And without quite noticing, the city fell away too.

Now I live on the edge of a lake, where the light in the morning is almost unreasonably still, and the only sound some days is water.

I wouldn't have believed it if you'd told me.

The studio is where these two lives coexist. It's a small space, and it's entirely mine — no one enters it the way I do, carrying what I carry.

On the surface it might look like a room with tools and paper and half-finished work. But it holds more than that. It holds the muscle memory of walls painted at night, the smell of ink drying slowly in silence, a decade of decisions about what a line can mean. Every object in here has a history I don't need to explain to anyone, because I'm usually alone, and that's exactly the point.

Solitude in here isn't absence. It's the condition that makes the work possible.

In these two slideshow there are some fragments of that space — close-ups, process shots and random pics, the kind of images that don't explain anything but might let you feel your way in.

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